


Tell Me Something Fiercer

by AJsregrettabledecisions



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Crossdressing, Derogatory Language, Falling In Love, Festivals, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, ambiguous timeline, mentions of sexual situations, should witcher be spelt with a capital W yes or no, we need more fics of Jaskier in dresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24662818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJsregrettabledecisions/pseuds/AJsregrettabledecisions
Summary: It's Belleteyn; Geralt is early to meet up with Jaskier, and finds his bard dressed in a way he's never seen before.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 186





	Tell Me Something Fiercer

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from a poem by Sanober Khan.  
> I'm getting through my WIPs and finishing them up - second fic uploaded in a day, wild.  
> Given I have 20 odd WIPs, some of which I haven't touched in years, and here I am with my third Geraskier fic and only one non-witcher fic published, I'm sure you can get a feel for just how much this show (and pairing) has become my muse.  
> Unbeta'd, please let me know of any typos/nonsense sentences!  
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> CW: mild homophobic/derogatory language - details in end notes.

Geralt should have minded the dates better. Witchers counted their days by the weather; the air chilling and first snowfalls meant it was time to find a place to reside for the winter. The spring thawing, when snow and ice gave way to freshly sprouting grass, meant it was time to return to the Path. Otherwise, time passed unnoticed for most of them. Dates were pointless; witchers didn’t count the days, or celebrate the festivals indicated by such.

Jaskier had said to meet him in Kerack the week after Belleteyn. To Geralt, that meant very little, but he had agreed with a hum. Jaskier was well and truly used to Geralt being late when they met up again after months apart; he had never minded, and would not now. Except it seemed that instead of late to the week after the festival, he was early. On Belleteyn night itself.

Geralt sighed heavily, trying to steer Roach as best he could through the throngs of people. Many reached out to pat her, pushing flowers and wreaths into her mane, and earning nips aplenty from the temperamental horse. Those who tried to do the same to him quickly abandoned their attempts when his fierce gaze locked onto them.

The air was thick with wood smoke, bonfires in every square; flowers in plentiful bundles on every street corner let off puffs of nauseating pollen. Wine and mead and ale flowed freely, drunken celebrators dancing through the streets to the sound of countless instruments. It was crowded, and filthy, and far too busy. Geralt wanted nothing more to get on Roach’s back and ride far, far away. But by now he had been seen – and recognised – and Jaskier would hear that he had ventured in, even if he hadn’t stayed.

At best, Jaskier would feel stung that Geralt had left without greeting the bard, instead waiting longer to meet with him. At worst, and more realistically, the bard would discern Geralt’s reason for leaving and tease him, sweetly yet mercilessly, for being cowed by a crowd of partying drunks.

The inn Geralt and Jaskier had planned to meet at was on the nicer side, but nonetheless was as much a victim of the festivities as any other. Countless people wandered in and out, great barrels of alcohol set out the front and distributed by harried staff. Above, within, Geralt could hear far too many people fucking, the whole place stinking of lust and watered wine. Geralt withheld another heavy sigh, leading Roach to the stables at the back.

“Afraid we’ve no more rooms inside, sir. We can stable the horse at least, if you’re not able to find room elsewhere,” the stable boy greeted at Geralt’s approach. Geralt paused for a moment, inhaling the stench of unwashed, sweaty, lusty people, searching through the building to find – sandalwood and primrose. Jaskier. The man himself wasn’t inside; Geralt could pick his heartbeat in his sleep. But his stuff was there, and that was good enough for Geralt.

“The bard Jaskier. He has a room here,” Geralt stated. The boy’s eyes widened briefly, before he nodded. His gaze ran across Geralt’s face and settled on his wolf pendant.

“You’re the White Wolf, then. The bard said to keep an eye for you, Master Witcher. Gavin at the bar will get you a key. I can take care of your horse.”

Geralt stripped his saddlebags from Roach and handed her to the boy, along with a coin for his work, which the boy quickly stuffed into a pocket. Inside, the innkeeper handed him a key, sending him up to Jaskier’s room. The people in the room next to it were fucking, poorly and drunkenly. Jaskier’s things were scattered across the room, and Geralt noted with a frown that the bard’s lute was still there, sitting in the propped open case. Geralt shrugged off the worry; he was likely too busy imbibing to play. As soon as he had secured his things with Jaskier’s, he was out again, pushing through a crowd too intoxicated to remember to shy away from a witcher.

When yet another person tried to wrap a chain of flowers around him, Geralt very nearly went to fetch Roach and leave. But he was caught by the all too familiar scent of sandalwood and primrose once more, this time carried on the air from the town’s main square. If nothing else, he could greet the bard, who would know at once the issue Geralt had with the festival, and would happily wave at Geralt’s retreating back and meet with him later.

Except that when Geralt reached the square and scanned across the many faces, he couldn’t spot the bard. He frowned, turning to smell and sound to find him, following his all too familiar, erratic heartbeat across the square, into the throng of dancers, where sandalwood and primrose spun and whirled and – and trailed, because Jaskier was in a dress and its fabric trailed behind him.

Geralt blinked dumbly at the bard. The dance was lively, partners passing back and forth, music rich and filling the air. It was certainly Jaskier, there, being moved from the arms of man to man, palms wrapping around his slim waist and fingertips running lengths down his back. The heartbeat was the same, and the smell, and the brilliant laughter and wicked smile and vibrant blue eyes. Just… In a woman’s clothes. Looking like a woman entirely, if one didn’t know him as himself.

The dress was a Keracki style; the bard must have picked it up when he got there. Geralt would have known if he’d been carrying it beforehand, each of them often delving into each other’s packs. The dress had a high neckline, wrapping delicately around Jaskier’s throat, and the sleeves were a soft, sheer fabric, billowing around his forearms and cinching at his wrists. It curved over breasts that Geralt knew the bard lacked, and tucked tightly at his waist before flaring out into a generous skirt. For a figure like that – the bard must have a corset on, one padded to fill him out.

It was elaborately embroidered, the rich dark blue accentuated by the silver thread that decorated the hems, cuffs, and collar. As he spun, the decoration caught the light of the fire, and the skirt billowed out, showing equally effeminate shoes beneath; a matching fabric and thread. Doubtless, it was a custom ensemble. An expensive one at that.

In his hair, the bard had a wreath of vibrant flowers, and many more braided through. It was longer than Geralt remembered it – he likely hadn’t cut it in the six months or so since they last spent time together, before winter and teaching had parted them. The wreath of bright blossoms complimented the fabric, and Geralt wondered if the bard had chosen and woven them himself.

Another turn, and Jaskier was partnered to face Geralt. With his mutated eyes, the darkness and distance did nothing to conceal the bard’s face. As rapturously enthused as the bard seemed, it was not Jaskier’s smile that Geralt focussed on. The bard was wearing makeup. Dark kohl lined his eyes, accentuating their soft hue, and rouge brightened his cheeks. Better still – the bard’s lips were a rich, sinful red, darker than blood.

Geralt’s cock twitched in his pants, the plush lips and their red, red colour ever so inviting. A tingle went down his neck as he allowed himself to imagine those lips stretched around him, kohl smudged by tears as he buried himself in the bard’s throat. It was not a new image; those lips had haunted him even before he saw them painted. Now, Geralt knew he’d be visiting that thought more than ever before.

For a moment, Geralt debated interrupting the dance to greet the bard. He paused though, taking the time to consider just what Jaskier’s appearance meant. In the years of their acquaintance – their _very best friendship_ , as the bard would call it – Geralt had never once seen Jaskier dress as a woman. Certainly he’d seen the bard behave in a manner more would associate with women; his perfumes and soaps, ribbons and silks. All had earned him slurs of _pansy_ and _faggot_ at some point or another.

But the bard had never once shown a liking to dressing as a woman, simply a liking for the finery which women were often granted. Perhaps this was new? No, Geralt doubted it. Jaskier moved with confidence and grace; seductive and exuding an air of femininity that Geralt doubted would belong in the first forays into crossdressing. No, this was something the bard was familiar with, and familiar with enjoying.

That meant that, for however long Jaskier had partaken and basked in this, he had kept it concealed from Geralt. Did that mean he would not want him to know? That he would feel that Geralt’s presence was an invasion of privacy; breaking whatever secrecy and pleasure the bard found within it? Geralt started to move away, to push back through the crowd and away. He’d find somewhere to drink near to the inn but out of eyeline, so the bard could return, see Geralt’s things, and dress how he’d prefer before Geralt found him.

Before Geralt could make his silent getaway, Jaskier’s eyes locked onto his. For a brief moment, there was the usual joy the bard wore when they reunited. Quickly, brutally, it was replaced by horror, the bard stumbling out of his partner’s arms and off to the side. He glanced at himself, his dress; curled his arms around his stomach and looked back to Geralt. Across the square, the sandalwood and primrose were streaked with stagnant water; the scent Geralt most often associated with the bard’s distress.

Geralt frowned, dismayed at the response. Not in all their years had the bard _ever_ been distressed by his arrival; it was as foul and unpleasant as he had always feared. Jaskier’s gaze roamed around him, eyeing a pathway through people. Before Geralt could even step towards him, the bard was off, weaving amongst merrymakers and away from the witcher.

Cursing, Geralt followed – he’d interrupted the bard’s night; his joy. It was not fear, and Geralt was grateful for that, but it was still distress, and he could not leave the bard in such a state. Jaskier was obnoxiously melodramatic; likely, he would flee the town before morning, given he seemed to think being caught in a dress was such a travesty.

Even amongst the throngs of drunks and dancers, Geralt was quick. Quicker than Jaskier. He caught up to him in sure steps, blocking him from ducking through an alleyway.

“Jaskier,” he huffed.

“Ah! Geralt! What a surprise. Can’t say I was expecting you, not this soon. Obviously. But, well, see, my evening is promised to another, so if you’ll just excuse me…”

He wouldn’t look at Geralt. Jaskier, who had never once shied away from Geralt, now couldn’t look him in the eye, and curled away from him. It stung. Jaskier, who trusted him with his life; trusted him to keep him fed and warm while on the road, and safe from angry spouses and greedy thieves while in towns. Jaskier, who’s presence and touch had been a quiet salvation for Geralt for some time. Jaskier trusted him with so much… But not this.

“Jaskier,” Geralt grumbled. He wanted to reach out; to rest a hand on the bard’s elbow as he often did when greeting him or leading him. But the sleeves were so soft, so thin – Geralt was half certain that his callouses would catch and tear it.

“Geralt,” Jaskier replied, still not looking at him. Geralt sighed.

“A drink. I need a drink,” Jaskier stated, eyes darting to the tavern that bordered the square. Geralt nodded, gesturing for Jaskier to lead the way. Inside, they were handed drinks immediately, barmaids darting from table to table with trays laden with tankards. They pushed through the crowd, finding a corner occupied by two handsy lovers. Geralt’s glare was enough to chase them away.

Jaskier sat, releasing a heavy breath and clutching at his tankard. He fidgeted when he was nervous – now was no different, as he sat spinning his drink in its cup.

“So. Well. This is… This is not a week after Belleteyn,” Jaskier stuttered.

“I realised,” Geralt drily stated. The silence that followed was atypical – normally, the bard would fill it with any number of things. Waxing poetic about a dance partner, cursing the watered drinks, regaling Geralt with stories from their months apart – or demanding Geralt share his own. Instead, there was silence, and it was _wrong_.

Geralt’s chest tightened as Jaskier’s scent shifted. There was the mixture of shame and embarrassment and distress that had been hanging around since Jaskier had locked eyes with Geralt, but now there was a pungent, sharp bitter-sweet stench – a smell Geralt was familiar with from when the bard would talk of his failings. It was the smell of Jaskier’s hatred – not for others, but for himself. It radiated from the bard.

Gods above, Geralt hated the smell. Jaskier should _never_ smell like that. Should never feel like that, either, and not for something like this. Moments ago Jaskier had been laughing and free and giddy; honey and flowers of his joy, over the heady mix of primrose, sandalwood, and the muskiness of sweat and masculinity. Geralt could feel the frown growing on his face, and tried to calm it while he pondered what he could say to chase away the rot in the bard.

“Geralt?” Jaskier murmured. Geralt’s heart seized in his chest; as the bard hunched in on himself even further, stagnant water distress and rotten lemon self-hatred joined by ice and rotten flesh – _fear_. Jaskier looked and smelt of fear; fear of Geralt. He was scared of him. A decade of travelling together and never before had Geralt had that scent aimed at him, _caused_ by him. Geralt forced himself to breathe.

No, Jaskier did not fear _him_. He feared Geralt’s _reaction_ – feared it because Geralt had found him dancing in a pretty dress that hugged curves he didn’t have, cosmetics softening his already sweet face. Jaskier was scared of Geralt’s thoughts; his reaction, his rejection

“Geralt… I – I’m sorry. This isn’t something I do often, you see, and I just… Sorry. I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispered. Salt pricked at Geralt’s nose. Tears. Fuck.

“Don’t be.”

Jaskier’s head whipped up at that, staring at Geralt. The bard’s face had always betrayed his emotion, just as much as his scent, and the sliver of crisp apples that marked Jaskier’s hope whispered through both.

“You look nice,” Geralt stated. Jaskier frowned then, his scent sharpening. Clove and mint – the bard’s unique blend of anger.

“Don’t mock me,” he snapped, looking back down at his drink.

“I’m not. You look nice.”

Geralt hoped his voice conveyed his conviction as he said it. It was the truth – Jaskier was always lovely, but when he dressed in his fanciest, he was particularly stunning. It seemed that extended to women’s clothes as well as his doublets and trousers, which made sense. While the clothing was pretty enough, it had always been Jaskier himself that had stolen Geralt’s eye.

Poetry was not something Geralt was skilled in. Not something he needed to know to kill monsters, after all. He couldn’t emphatically declare the bard’s beauty and magnificence. Witchers didn’t have those kinds of words in their vocabularies. And those words were always physical – about looks and appearance, not about the core of the person.

It was not the dress that Geralt found beautiful, it was everything else. How could he find words for the pleasure on Jaskier’s face as he was passed from partner to partner, skirt swishing with each spin? How could he articulate the way the kohl highlighted the joy in his eyes, and the rouge the vibrancy of his smile? What could he say to describe the echo of Jaskier’s laughter, enigmatic and pitched ever so slightly higher, but as pure and rich as ever? And Gods, the smell of him throughout?

Geralt was not a poet, and he did not have those words, merely the sensation of his own quiet joy when he got to see Jaskier as such. The bard was stunning in the gown, but it was _him_ who was beautiful, not the dress itself. Geralt hoped that Jaskier knew that, since the witcher didn’t have the words for it.

“Do you… Do you really mean that?” Jaskier whispered, eyes tracing patterns on the tabletop.

“Yes.”

Jaskier knew him. Knew that words were not his forte, and that what little he said was spoken with conviction. Geralt was not one to polish his words – not one to spit pretty nothings in place of the truth.

The toxic mix of Jaskier’s fear and self-hatred and anger disappeared so quickly Geralt felt he had whiplash, the warm mix of happy honey and hopeful apple replacing it in an instance, mixing with the bard’s primrose and sandalwood. They were the same scents that had emanated from the bard when Geralt first found him, back just as strong and just as sweet. Jaskier’s smile was as brilliant and invigorated as the shift in his scent, a perfect reflection of his emotions.

“Alright then. Alright,” he muttered to himself. Almost shyly, he glanced up at Geralt, biting his lip.

“I don’t suppose you’d like a dance?” Jaskier grinned. Geralt barked a laugh at that.

“You already know the answer to that,” Geralt huffed. Jaskier rolled his eyes.

It was a question the bard had asked a hundred times – a thousand, even. It broke the tension nicely, ridding them both of the tightness they had carried from the moment they sat. They both knew – Geralt’s dances are done with a blade, done to bring death; Jaskier’s are done to bring joy and breathless pleasure. Dancing is not for them to share, not something they do – not something Geralt ever let himself do. It never stopped the bard asking.

But there had been times. Times before, when Jaskier would be in his ridiculous doublets and just ever so tipsy, soft and warm by Geralt’s side. Times where he would whisper _dance with me_ and Geralt would fight the urge to answer _yes_. Those times where his will felt weakened were never about the dancing; they were about the closeness. Wondering what it would feel like to have the bard pressed against him, tucked into his arms, chest to chest and heartbeats intermingling.

Geralt wondered if Jaskier would feel different in a dress than in his menswear. If the silk would weigh differently beneath the witcher’s fingertips, or if it would be just as heady as Geralt imagined regardless of what the bard wore. It didn’t matter – dancing with him was another dream Geralt would not see realised, tucked alongside thought of the bard on his knees or all fours or his back, laughing and breathless and happy to be there. It would be tucked away with the rest of the dreams of all Geralt wanted from the bard.

They still touched frequently; Jaskier was liberal with his affection, gentle fingertips brushing against Geralt, or tucking next to him for warmth, or leaning on the witcher while he played. Holding hands, in the dark, when Jaskier would wake gasping from nightmares he wouldn’t share. Geralt’s chest would seized, in those moments, heart heavy and full. But those were all Jaskier, by him and for him, and not Geralt. What touches Geralt wanted, to both give and receive, were not his to have.

As it was, Jaskier merely smiled at him, downing the last of his drink.

“I’ll find someone else, then, my dear witcher. I suppose I'll see you after the festival. But if you change your mind, do find me,” Jaskier grinned. The bard left, trailing through the crowd with a lighter step than normal – a slight sway to his hips, a coyness to his gaze. Geralt's eyes never left him. Before he left the tavern, he glanced back to Geralt, red, red lips twisted in a smirk. Jaskier winked, and was swept off into the fray of frenetic Belleteyn dancers once more.

Geralt tucked the twist of his lips away with all the other things he couldn’t have.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment or kudo if you've enjoyed.
> 
> I've had a poke at a couple more things in this crossdressing universe, so if you're interested, please let me know and I'll try to finish them up and turn this into a series.
> 
> CW details: Use of derogatory homophobic slurs. Geralt recalls times where Jaskier's more 'effeminate' traits have quote: "earned him slurs of pansy and faggot" - no one actually addresses anyone by this in the fic directly.


End file.
